The olive shading of the black mamba can’t be ignored. It’s the last thing you want to see in Namibia.

And it’s under my car.

I perch on a picnic table at a tiny rest stop 30 miles north of Otjiwarongo, with my eye on the snake, knowing better than to throw something to scare it off. Tall grass punctuated with sprawling trees lines each side of the highway, and what lies beyond is protected by chain-link fencing. After 10 minutes of waiting for the snake to move, a truck turns off the road.

“Are you having trouble with your vehicle?” asks the man.

“In a way,” I respond. “I’ve got a mamba under my car.”

The man introduces himself as Solomon, a Namibian wildlife guide, and asks if I have binoculars so he can check my claim. My binoculars are in the car. I hand him my camera. He looks through the lens, grunts and gives it back.

“Indeed, that’s what he is,” says Solomon. “We’re here for a while. Do you have lunch?”

I reply that I have a great lunch, but it’s sitting in my car next to the binoculars. Solomon strides back to his truck, reaches inside and pulls out a bag and cooler. In less than a minute, he’s set the picnic table and laid out his meal to share with me.

After a week, I’ve gotten so comfortable in Namibia that I’m not worried about driving across the country, walking through town at night, or hiking alone. Concerned e-mails from home ask if I’m staying safe and locking my hotel room door, tell me to watch out for strangers (which is everyone), and advise me to “be careful in Africa.” I’m beginning to wonder if I’m having a one-person fairy-tale experience and missing something ominous that will teach me a lesson.

It’s understandable, of course, that people are afraid of the unfamiliar. This entire continent is often prejudged or labeled based on events in a few regions. The only way to know the real truth is to pack your bags and see for yourself.

Even I had my moment of doubt before coming. When asked by the country’s tourism office if I felt comfortable driving a rental SUV around by myself, I hesitated.

“I’m a blond surfer girl from the United States,” I answered. “I won’t blend in. Do you feel comfortable with me driving around alone?”

The immediate, positive response was all I needed to dismiss any doubt. But when I checked in at the rental car agency and was presented with a two-wheel-drive car instead of a four-wheel-drive SUV, I realized that my tire-changing skills were more than rusty. There’s no such thing as an auto service club in Namibia, and obstacles abound — from deep water holes to families of warthogs that seem to wait until the last moment to hurl themselves across lanes of traffic with their skinny tails in the air.

Noticing that the presence of the snake makes me nervous, Solomon asks me why. Surprised by his question, I sputter a little with my response about the mamba’s aggression and venom. I omit telling him that only recently have I gotten a lifelong snake phobia under control. But I still get shivers when I see a photo of a black mamba. Having a live one this close to me is unnerving.

“But right now, he is your friend,” Solomon advises. “Everyone is already your friend: the snake, the elephant, the leopard, the stranger. They are only not your friend if they hurt you.”

I counter his optimism. “It’s hard to overcome irrational fears, especially when potential danger is involved.”

Solomon nods, and points out that we’re two seemingly opposing animals in the world’s wilderness. “But here I am, an African man, talking to you, a blond California woman, out in the middle of nowhere in Namibia,” he says. “Nobody is here to help if things go badly. And many people think that’s the only way this scenario can end, as if Africa is too dangerous to bother trusting. You’ve trusted Namibia, so you can trust our mamba friend. But that doesn’t mean you do it without caution.”

We enjoy his lunch of barbecued chicken, corn and garlic bread, which he’d packed for a break in his six-hour drive. The cooler is packed with frosty bottles of Hansa Urbock, a bockbier that gives a subtle nod to the country’s German settlers. A glance at my car tells us that the mamba is still there, so we each open a beer and toast to friends who don’t bite.

“Back at home,” he says, “if you have car trouble, do you wait for help?”

I remember my father’s lessons in changing tires, back when I was 15. “Yes,” I explain. “However, the person who comes to help is usually a mechanic who I call. Strangers don’t usually bother, thinking it’s not their responsibility. And we are often too wrapped up in our own lives to think about others.”

Solomon sighs, and silently points at the towering neck and head of a giraffe in the distance. He smiles when he sees my eyes widen — as if I’m 5 years old.

“If we help each other,” he says. “There is more time for wonder. Like that giraffe. How many have you seen in Namibia so far?”

I reply that I’ve seen perhaps 30. But every time I spy another animal — no matter if it’s an elephant, leopard, cheetah, honey badger, oryx, jackal or baboon — it’s as if I’ve seen it for the first time. The excitement never wanes.

“That’s how it should be with everything,” he says, and looks into the distance after the giraffe.

I haven’t looked at my watch this entire time, fascinated with Solomon’s stories. I have no idea if 20 minutes or two hours have passed. Aside from my need to get to my destination before sundown, I’m in no rush. I ask Solomon if I’m keeping him.

“If we don’t make time for friends,” he says as he hands me an orange, “how sad would our lives be?”

We look over to the car for our regular snake check. The mamba is gone. I silently hope it hasn’t crawled into my car’s undercarriage, but don’t want Solomon to know that I still don’t trust the snake completely.

As we pack up his gear, Solomon pulls some ostrich shell beads from a package in his truck, opens my hand and places them gently in my palm.

“Your friends are more than these,” he says, as he closes my fingers over the beads. “See them everywhere they are, and you will be happy.”

He walks me to my car, and as I drive away, I see him waving. Far ahead of me on the road, a family of warthogs runs across my path. I begin to think like Solomon.